


Protector

by TheAsexualofSpades



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Adventurer!Virgil, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Has PTSD, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, gratuitous abuse of my knowledge of dnd monsters, yeah it's not a fun time for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 04:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Virgil’s got a simple code when he’s not on a hunt. Don’t hurt whatever you don’t absolutely have to, and odds are, it won’t hurt you. Now and then there’s a bit of an, um, incident where that doesn’t quite work out as well as they’d hoped, but by and large they get by.Or: 5 times Virgil helps a monster he was supposed to kill, and 1 time the monsters help him.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Everyone, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Everyone, DLAMP, LAMP - Relationship, dlampr
Comments: 28
Kudos: 204





	Protector

**Author's Note:**

> yes five plus one layout come THRU
> 
> thanks for the req, babe! I had fun with it

**Prompt:** if prompts are still open: virgil as an adventurer who keeps accidentally befriending the monsters he’s supposed to be fighting (aka the other sides)? have a wonderful day! (and don’t feel any pressure to do this at all, and if your inbox is meant to be closed absolutely delete this ask)

* * *

Virgil’s got a simple code when he’s not on a hunt. Don’t hurt whatever you don’t absolutely have to, and odds are, it won’t hurt you. Now and then there’s a bit of an, um, incident where that doesn’t quite work out as well as they’d _hoped,_ but by and large they get by.

He sighs as he walks outside, grabbing the pair of gloves from the rickety tray and tugging them over his weathered hands. The front garden isn’t nearly as overgrown as it was when he found this little cabin in the middle of nowhere, but it’s got a long way to go before he can walk through without tripping over at _least_ one overgrown bramble.

There’s a very persistent mint plant that’s slowly and surely trying to choke the flowers. Virgil bends down and starts to toil in the dirt.

“Come on,” he mutters, because he’s allowed to talk to plants when no one else is listening, “let’s _stop_ doing that, you don’t have to be _literally_ everywhere…”

The mint doesn’t protest _verbally,_ because it’s a _plant_ and plants can’t _talk,_ but Virgil would swear it tries to hold onto the dirt as he pulls it up, holding his hand under the roots to catch the dirt.

“Alright, come on out, then, let’s just…put you in here.”

There’s a plot of dirt in a crate resting at his knee. He pats the soil. Fresh enough. The mint plant looks almost contrite as he tucks it into the corner.

“Next time I go see the townspeople I’m sure you’ll make some tea-shop owner very happy.”

The rest of the garden goes similarly. By the end, he’s filled the crate almost halfway when his hand catches something sharp.

_The blade gleams as it flashes through the air. The child screams. His eyes widen—_

“No,” he grits out, flattening his hands into the dirt, “no, it’s…it’s okay. We’re okay. It’s… _hhhh._ ”

As he exhales, his shoulders slump, head bowing almost to his chest. The sounds of blades swinging through the air fade as the breeze rustles the leaves surrounding the cabin. The faint smell of mint cleanses his nose of blood.

Virgil opens his eyes and carefully moves his hand away from the rose.

“When’d you get here,” he mutters, carefully lifting the leaves to examine the stem, “don’t remember seeing you.”

The thorns snag on the little pieces of dirt hanging from his gloves. He glances around. There aren’t any other roses nearby, not that he can see. And it’s probably not very good for it to be growing in the middle of this choked soil patch.

He stands and makes his way back for the sharper trowel.

Something hisses.

His grip on the trowel doesn’t waver but he turns his head casually to glance over his shoulder.

Something crouches in the garden, just barely visible over the crate. A tuft of hair, not dark enough to be a bear cub, not light enough to be a squirrel. His arm relaxes against his side, trowel snug against his thigh.

“Hello,” he calls, watching closely, “is someone there?”

He blinks in surprise when a cat pokes its head over the crate.

“Uh, hey, there,” he manages, “uh…what’re you doing all the way out here?”

In response, the cat leaps elegantly over the crate. It’s a slim thing, but not underweight. Its fur is bluish-gray, almost like a stormcloud. As Virgil watches, the cat sneezes and its fur turns a dappled brown.

Virgil sighs. “So _you’re_ the mischievous sprite I’ve been told to get rid of.”

The neighboring village has tried several times to make him seek and destroy the sprite’s nest. Apparently, it’s been causing all sorts of problems. Books going missing, glasses breaking in the middle of the night, jars of preserves broken into. Now, that’s not really what Virgil calls a punishable offense, but the villagers were insistent that he find it and fight it. He’s done one of those things.

Well, technically, the sprite found him.

“There’s not much here that would interest you,” Virgil says, gesturing at the unkempt garden, “but if you want to tell me what you _do_ want, then—hey!”

The sprite, of course, doesn’t wait for him to actually _finish_ inviting it inside. Instead, the door creaks as the cat darts between his legs and vanishes.

“Be careful,” he warns, “there are sharp things.”

He pushes open the door to see the cat perched on a precariously high shelf, sniffing at the books. He sighs.

“I can get those _down_ if you want, it might be easier than doing whatever the hell it is you’re doing now.”

The cat ignores him, pawing at the thick leather cover. He sighs and pulls off his gloves.

“Alright, just—wait a damn minute.”

Virgil grunts as he lifts the book of the shelf and carries it over to the table, opening it and waiting. The cat jumps up onto the table and sniffs at the pages. Its tongue laps at a word.

“You want more about that? Okay, let’s just—“

Yes, Virgil is talking to this sprite. He’s allowed to do that in his own home.

He turns the pages until the cat chirps.

“This? This what you want?”

The sprite stares at the page. It goes unnaturally still.

The hairs on the back of Virgil’s neck stand up.

Then it breaks; the cat shakes itself off and jumps down.

“That’s it? You done now?”

The cat’s tail twitches gracefully as it struts back to the door. Virgil rolls his eyes and follows it out.

“Well, I’m glad I could be of service,” he mutters as he closes the door.

Something rough touches his hand. He looks down. The sprite looks back up at him and licks his hand again.

“…you’re welcome.”

The cat sneezes, its fur changing back into the deep bluish-gray. Without another look, it takes off, leaping effortlessly over the crate and disappearing into the woods.

Well, stranger things have happened in Virgil’s life.

Shaking his head, he gets back to his garden. He glances at the rose before deciding that, eh, what the hell, it can stay another day. He finishes filling the mint crate and sets it near the front door, ready for his trip to the village tomorrow.

“Ah, thank you!” The tea shop owner beams as he hands it over. “I’m sure this’ll be plenty.”

“I’ve got more than enough, I promise.”

“Well, since that sprite disappeared, I won’t be running out nearly as often!”

Virgil blinks. “Huh?”

“Oh, the sprite you got rid of!” She smiles. “Thank you kindly for that, it was ever so pesky.”

Virgil just nods.

* * *

Virgil opens his eyes and doesn’t _quite_ reach for the dagger he keeps in the nightstand but it’s close.

“There’s a dog in my bed,” he mutters, “standing on top of me, drooling on my face.”

The dog just barks. And changes color.

He sighs. “Are you the same one from last time? Was the book not enough for you?”

The dog barks again, jumping off the bed and trotting to the kitchen, its nail clicking on the floor. Virgil lets his eyes close for a second before getting up and following it.

“Alright, the book it—whoa.”

The dog is, um. Not a sprite.

A huge mastiff elemental sits in the middle of his kitchen. It looks up from when it was nosing at what remained of a chicken carcass and rumbles. Virgil raises his hands.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says lowly, “even though you _did_ break into my house and wake me up. What do you want?”

The elemental turns and moves through the house, out toward the woods. Virgil stuffs his feet in his boots and follows, tucking a slingshot and his knife into his pockets as he goes. The elemental moves through the trees with an inhuman grace, the very edges of the leaves it passes smoldering. A thin tendril of smoke wafts past Virgil’s nose.

_“She’s still inside!” The guard shouts as Virgil wrenches his arm away. “I have to go get her!”_

_“Sir, you’ll die!”_

_“She’s still—“_

_The top of the house crashes down as—_

Virgil closes his eyes and brings his kerchief up to his nose. He breathes deeply. Freshly baked bread. Honeysuckle. The slightly tacky smell of leather oil. _Breathe in, breathe out._

When he opens his eyes again, the elemental has paused, glancing back at him.

“I’m coming,” he says quickly, “I’m coming. Keep going.”

He shrugs the old ghosts off his shoulders and follows.

The elemental leads him to a clearing. Underneath a large, dead white tree, there’s a small den of moss. Virgil’s breath catches in his throat.

The villagers had sent him a warning about a curse in the area. Fires had been going out. It had been impossible to keep warmth in the houses over the long winter nights. They’d been seeing figures in the smoke, sightings of, well, a mastiff. They’d contacted him to try and get it to leave.

Well, the mastiff elemental is here, under the tree, looking back and forth between Virgil and something he can’t see, buried in the moss.

“Is there something you wanna show me,” he asks softly, coming a little further into the clearing, “in there?”

The elemental whines. He walks forward until he catches sight of a stone in the middle of the bed of moss. It’s cracked in two.

“Is this what you wanted to show me,” he calls, shifting into a crouch, “this stone?”

The elemental huffs, nudging his hand. It reaches past him and tries to pick up the stone in its mouth, only for it to drop. It puts its nose down and whines.

“…was this your favorite stone to play with?” The elemental butts its head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry it broke. How’d it happen?”

The elemental points its nose toward a jagged boulder in the corner of the clearing.

“Ah, I see.”

And you know what? Yeah, Virgil gets it. He’s dropped shit where he shouldn’t have dropped it before and it broke. What does it matter that this elemental is so upset over accidentally breaking its favorite toy that its warmth is so low the nearby villagers think it’s a curse?

“Hey,” Virgil murmurs, reaching out to cup the two halves of the rock in his hands, “it’s okay. This rock—good choice by the way, very good choice—it’s part of the Perse Mountains, right? So it’s susceptible to fire magic.”

He reaches into his slingshot bag and pulls out two small rocks. Using one on either side, he sandwiches the two halves of the broken rock together and holds it out to the elemental.

“Now breath on it.”

The elemental exhales carefully, bathing the rock in a steady stream of fire. Sure enough, in a few moments, thanks to Virgil holding it steady, the rock glows a soft yellow and reforges.

“That’s good.” He takes it carefully between the stones and rolls it around the moss, trying to cool it. “Okay. Try now.”

The elemental takes the rock gingerly between its teeth and _yips._

Virgil chuckles. “I’m glad I could help.”

The elemental spins in a circle before turning back into the dog and licking Virgil’s cheek, barking excitedly.

“Okay, okay, you’re _welcome,_ jeez.” He half-heartedly shoves the dog’s head away. “You’re getting slobber all over me!”

The dog pulls away and takes the rock into its mouth again, snuffling happily. Virgil shakes his head and gets up.

“If that’s all, then I’m gonna go home.” The dog licks his hand one more time. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

And if a fire is already burning when he gets back home, well, that’s just a surefire way to know there was never a curse for the villagers to worry about.

Get it? Sure _fire?_

Shut up, he’s hilarious.

* * *

“Ah, Virgil!”

Virgil turns. The blacksmith waves at him from the market stalls. Dodging fruit carts and weaving his way through passers-by, he stops in front of the man and gestures to the new wares.

“Good season, Anbel?”

“Oh, the best!” Anbel gestures to the coin chest behind him. “You know how it is, goes in and out of season.”

Absentmindedly, Virgil rubs at the scars on his arms. “I know the feeling.”

“Anyways, I got that dagger you gave me to repair.”

Anbel reaches behind him and pulls the dagger out of a leather bag. He holds it up. The deep gouges in the blade are gone, the handle isn’t tarnished anymore, and it looks…good.

“Thank you, Anbel,” he says, reaching for it, “so how much?”

“No charge.”

“Come on.”

“No charge,” Anbel repeats, “not for you.”

Unbidden, a flush rises to his cheeks as he tucks the dagger into his belt. “Anbel…”

“Alright,” the blacksmith says, holding up his hands, “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Virgil sighs. “What’d you do?”

“Why do you assume that I did something?”

Virgil just gives him a look.

“…alright but _this_ time it wasn’t me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Anbel smacks his chest. “I’m _serious,_ there’s something wrong in the woods outside of town.”

Virgil sobers, taking a step closer. “What is it?”

“Dunno. But my horses won’t go past a particular stretch of land and I need to be able to make the trip next moon.”

Virgil chews on his lip, thinking. “Did they run away or just refuse to go near?”

“Refused to go near.” Anbel shakes his head. “Don’t know what’s gotten into them. They’re good mares.”

“Have any others reported anything?”

“Cindi had trouble getting through too.”

“Where is it?”

“Just before the bend in the river. Near the trees.”

Virgil sighs. “I’ll have a look.”

That’s how he finds himself wandering down the main road on the next cloudy day. He glances around to make sure there aren’t any other villagers nearby before he starts looking around. There’s a small grove of trees near the riverbank, a mound of rocks next to the bend in the road, and a rapid system rushing just out of sight.

Maybe the horses were scared of the rapids? They’ve been known to spook before. But no, Anbel makes this trip every season. If the horses were going to spook at the rapids, they’ve done it before.

Virgil frowns, coming to a stop in the middle of the grass between the road and the river. What could they’ve been startled by? There’s not enough space to hide anything here. The rocks are on the wrong side of the road. The river isn’t close or loud. And the trees aren’t close enough together to hide anything between them.

_…between_ them.

Virgil holds very, very still.

Out of the corner of his eye, one of the trunks shifts.

He doesn’t move quickly, doesn’t draw his dagger, just lowers his eyes to the grass and turns, facing the trees, and takes a step backward. Then another. Then another. When he’s over ten yards away, he looks up.

“I mean you no harm,” he calls, “I have no wish to interfere. I was told that there was something that scared a few horses and wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

The breeze rustles through the leaves.

“I am happy to leave you here,” he continues, risking a step closer, “but I know that…this is probably not where you’d like to be. This isn’t an especially damp forest.”

The trunk shifts again.

“If there’s something I can do to help—“ he risks another step— “I’d be happy to.”

_There._

The trunk shifts and seems to shrink inside as a jaculi unwinds itself from around its base. It blinks lazily at him with amber eyes, golden scales rippling in the faint light from the cloudy sky.

“Hello,” Virgil waves, “can I—will you let me come closer?”

The jaculi hisses and lays its head near the ground.

“Thank you.” Virgil walks forward carefully, stopping a few feet away and crouching down. “Now, what brings you here? You look like you’re an awful long way from home.”

The jaculi hisses again, its head swiveling toward the river. Virgil looks. Across the bank, he can see a much denser forest and what looks like a storm brewing.

“You’ll be hurt,” he realizes, “if you try and stay here…”

The jaculi coils tighter around the tree trunk.

“How’d you get over here,” Virgil mutters, “you’d’ve needed to swim across…and that _also_ won’t go well for you.”

There’s a soft rustling as the jaculi buries its tail in a pile of leaves near the base of the tree. Virgil glances over to see it rubbing its face halfheartedly against the bark.

His eyes widen.

About a month ago there had been a terrible storm. His little cabin had barely held together. He’d heard reports from the tavern owner that it’d blown one of the old trees right over.

“That’s how you got across,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, “you climbed across the tree. And now it’s gone and you’re stuck.”

The jaculi blinks remorsefully at him.

“Okay,” Virgil mutters, “okay, we can…we can figure this out.”

They’ll have to do it at night. There’s no way the jaculi will feel safe enough to move while it’s still light out. There’s an old barn that never finished construction just over the ridge. One of those timber pieces is probably long enough to get over the river. And he can make a bridge wide enough to support the jaculi’s weight.

He explains his plan to the jaculi, feeling a little ridiculous, but he’s allowed to explain what he’s doing to help someone, it’s fine, and says that he’ll be back. Promise.

The landowner gives him a weird look when he asks to borrow the timber.

“It’s too long for you to do anything with it,” he says, still helping Virgil load it onto a sled, “and much too tough for you to cut by yourself.”

“It’s fine just the way it is,” Virgil says, “and thank you.”

He waves Virgil off. “Keep it. You’re doing better than I am with it.”

Virgil’s back at the river bend by sundown. He can’t see the jaculi anymore—it’s probably hidden itself for safety—but he calls out when he arrives.

“I’m going to use these to make a bridge for you. It shouldn’t take me too long.”

The pieces of timber are ungainly, to make a _colossal_ understatement, but Virgil grits his teeth and slides them out of the sled. He wades a little into the river and—

_The water is so cold it burns. He has to keep going. It’s gaining on him. He’ll be safe in the water._

_The growls get closer and his foot slips—_

“No,” he mutters, “no, it’s not that. I’m _fine._ I’m standing, I’m not hurt, I’m not drowning.”

He blinks down at his boots, the water swirling around his ankles. The timber in his hands shifts as he breathes. He’s fine. He’s _fine._

“Okay…okay.”

He grits his teeth again and _heaves,_ bringing the piece of timber with him. He wades further until it’s swirling around his waist. The piece of timber is just long enough to reach the other side. Onto the next one.

He gets the five of them stretched across the river just as the last of the light vanishes. Panting, he struggles back up onto the side of the river bank and splays out onto his back, eyes closed.

A low hiss sounds in his ear.

He _just_ manages to avoid a scream.

“ _Hey,_ ” he gasps instead, eyes flickering open to see the jaculi coiled up a few feet away, “uh…please don’t do that.”

The jaculi just blinks at him.

  
“Uh…why don’t you, uh…” Virgil holds a hand to his chest, trying to get his breathing back under control. “…try out the bridge?”

The jaculi slithers closer, flicking its tongue out against the timber. It looks back at Virgil.

“Go on,” he encourages, “you can do it.”

It slithers on, testing the boards against its weight.

Virgil holds his breath until the jaculi vanishes into the trees across the river banks, slipping further and further into the darkness.

Anbel leaves on his trip the next moon.

* * *

Honestly, when the kraken explodes out of Virgil’s well, he just sighs and fetches his bath so he can get the poor thing _out._

_“Easy,”_ he grumbles when the kraken squirms so much he almost drops it, “you may be a young one but you’re still _heavy._ ”

Panting, he drops the tentacled beast into the full tub, his arms flying up to shield his face from the shower of sparkling drops. Judging by the happy trills and clicks, the kraken likes it in there. He shakes his head.

“So _that’s_ why I’ve been asked to fight a monster in the sewers,” he muses, watching the kraken’s tentacles writhe giddily in the metal tub, “just _how_ did you end up so far inland?”

The kraken, of course, does not deign to answer. Instead, the tentacles latch onto the side of the bath and threaten to tip the whole thing over.

“ _No,_ you idiot,” Virgil shouts, grabbing onto the other side and weighing it down. He winces when more water spills onto him, drenching him head to toe. “Now look what you’ve done.”

What the kraken has done, apparently, is get Virgil close enough so that its tentacles can haul Virgil into the tub.

“Hey!”

Virgil spits water out of his mouth, much to the kraken’s delight.

“That was _rude._ ”

The kraken just chirps happily and wriggles around. Its tentacles stick to Virgil’s clothes and pull him through the water.

Virgil’s chest tightens.

One of the first things they teach you about krakens is _never get in the water with them._ The second thing they teach you about krakens is _do not get in the water with them._ The third thing they teach you about krakens is not to get too close to their tentacles so they don’t _pull you into the water with them._

And yeah, this is Virgil’s bathtub, not a river, a tide pool, or the open sea, but you can drown in an inch of water.

Virgil presses his back up against the rim of the tub. The kraken seems to realize something’s wrong and settles, burbling softly.

“Hey, bud,” Virgil says shakily, “I, uh, what’re you doing here?”

The kraken twitches a few tentacles and more water slops over the edge.

“Right…” Virgil shakes his head. “Okay, well, uh, I would rather _not_ sit here and soak through all of my clothes, so I’m just going to—“

As soon as he tries to move, the kraken wraps a tentacle around his leg and tugs.

“Okay, okay, not leaving, not leaving, um—“ Virgil reaches down and takes a handful of the grass. Worst comes to worst, he can tip the tub and get the kraken back in the well.

The kraken lets go as soon as he settles back in the water. Virgil looks at the creature carefully.

There’s a mark on its head. Discoloration, probably, but still obvious. As he watches, the kraken burbles to itself and starts making little ripples in the surface of the water with its tentacles. After a moment, it starts gently pushing the water towards Virgil.

The water laps at Virgil’s knees in little waves, not enough to wet him anymore—not that it would matter at this point—but enough to bounce back and make more patterns. The kraken trills softly and keeps doing it.

Does it…want to _play?_

Slowly, Virgil lifts his hands up and starts to push the water back. The kraken, realizing that Virgil is indeed committing to the idea that he is going to _play_ with this kraken, trills louder and uses more of its tentacles to move the waves bigger.

“Yeah? Is that how it works?” Virgil moves his hands. “Like that?”

The kraken chirps.

He’s not really sure _how_ long they stay there, playing with the water, but it’s long enough for the sun to go down in the sky and Virgil to get more than a little chilly in the water.

When the kraken notices that the water is rippling more around Virgil and he’s _not_ moving his hands any faster, it wraps a tentacle around his ankle and tugs.

“What? You tired?” The kraken leans its head against the side of the tub. “Okay. Well, I don’t know how long you can stay in here—“

He cuts himself off when the kraken jabs a tentacle toward the well.

“You wanna go _back_ in there? It’s so small and cramped, and the sewers in town aren’t much better.”

The kraken insists.

Sure. Why not.

Virgil grunts as he lifts the kraken back into the bucket, carefully lowering the creature down into the well. He hears one more trill before splashing sounds indicate that the creature is gone.

Funnily enough, reports of the sewer beast vanish overnight.

When Virgil wakes up panting from a nightmare of ropes around his neck, the glass of water on his bedside table is perfectly cold.

* * *

Virgil curses as the sole of his boot slips. He just manages to catch himself against the cliffside before splitting his knee on a harsh spire of rock. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself onward.

The cliffs frown over him as he makes his way up the pass. The rocks crumble threateningly as his boots crunch, crunch, crunch. The sword on his hip feels too heavy. He curses, tugging his glove the rest of the way onto his hand.

He never was one for dragon hunts.

The message came in a week ago. Some poor terrified soul had come screaming into the town, ranting about dragons, missing people, curses, the whole lot. Virgil had taken up the call and set off, promising to get to the bottom of it.

He never promised to hurt anything.

Thunder rolls ominously in the distance and he bites back another curse. There’s a cave up ahead, he can see it just over the next ridge, he’ll rest there.

In all honesty—and he can be honest, now there’s no one else around—he _hates_ these kinds of missions. Finding something is one thing. Going to _get_ something is one thing. _Rescuing_ someone is one thing.

This feels like something else.

There’s something in his boot. There’s a wrinkle in the thinnest shirt he’s wearing. The sword belt is digging into his hip. The voices in his head won’t _shut the fuck up._

The cave is right there.

He all but collapses to his knees as soon as he makes it inside, just as the first drops of rain land on the back of his armor. He breathes a sigh of relief, heading further into the cave, into the safety, out of the storm.

It’s quiet here.

He takes the knife out of its loop on his belt and sets about setting up a fire. There’s a reasonable stash of dry wood here, probably enough to keep him going throughout the night. He makes a small bundle and lights it, blowing on it until it catches and burns merrily.

Shrugging off his pack, he leans it up against the wall and starts to dig out the dried meat. He tears off a long strip with his teeth and chews slowly, staring into the flames.

There’s something nice about fire. Not all fire—he’s got the burns to prove that—but this fire. Controlled fire. He sits back on his hands, brushing aside the eggshells to lean against the cave wall.

Controlled fire is…justified chaos. It’s strange, to think of chaos as being justified. But that’s what it is. A controlled burn. Snapping and sparking amidst a small mound of wood, warm. Safe. It’s strange to think of fire as safe, too.

Virgil sits back, finishing off his meal and closing his eyes. The fire is very, _very_ warm. Much warmer than he would expect for just a small campfire. And a little irregular, too. It comes in waves, _pants,_ almost.

…wood, eggshells…

Okay, look.

Look.

Virgil’s tired, okay?

It’s not like this is what _normally_ happens to him on hunts.

He knows what he’s doing.

He does!

It’s fine.

This is fine.

This is so utterly fine right now.

But…okay, yeah, _maybe_ Virgil’s not been paying as much attention as he should be. And _maybe_ he’s fighting down a panic attack right now. And _maybe_ he’s frozen in fear to the floor of this cave and not sure how he’s survived this long.

Whatever.

Virgil cracks an eye open.

“…hey, there, dragon.”

Surprisingly enough, his head does not get immediately bitten off. Instead, the dragon looks at him, nostrils puffing hot air into his face. The smell of dank cavern air mixes with what Virgil _really_ hopes isn’t decomposing human.

“Um…fancy seeing you here?”

The dragon huffs louder, still staring into Virgil’s soul. He risks a glance over its shoulder to make sure that yes, this _is_ the only dragon in this cave, there aren’t suddenly going to be five of them. He spies the scales trailing further into the darkness, muscular legs, long, powerful tail. The dragon growls, snapping his eyes back.

“Hey, uh—didn’t mean to invade your cave.” Virgil scoots backward. “That was absolutely my fault. I can, uh—well, I can’t _really_ promise to leave you alone, but I, uh…rain check?”

As if on cue, thunder booms from outside.

_Shit._

A lower growl sounds from the dragon as its mouth curls up. _Wow,_ those teeth are _long…_

“Can you, uh—so I know that this is a pretty big request, considering I just, you know, invaded your cave, but uh—maybe don’t eat me?”

Judging by the growl, that’s a _no._

“Okay, I, uh—“ Virgil risks a glance around. His fire is still burning. Maybe he can at least get the dragon to back up before he—

He pauses.

Near the fire, the dragon’s leg looks…wet. Its scales are stained with a dark splotch coming from somewhere higher up. As he watches, the dragon shifts its weight and it gets wetter.

“You’re hurt,” he says softly, “you’re—oh, god, you’re hurt.”

He looks back up. The dragon’s snarl doesn’t quite soften, but its mouth relaxes a little.

“I’ve got salve and bandages in my pack,” he says cautiously, “if you let me get them, I can—I can help?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, he moves his hand to his pack, keeping the other one raised as he opens the flap and takes out the bottle and the bandages.

“Can I have a look, please? I’m just gonna…”

The dragon huffs cautiously as Virgil turns, moving around its body to crouch next to its injured leg. Now that he’s closer, he can see what’s happened.

A shard of metal is lodged in the soft space between two of the scales. Every time the dragon moves, it shifts, spilling more and more blood. Judging by how _loud_ the dragon is breathing, it must really hurt.

“You poor thing,” he mutters, “how long has this been here?”

No response.

“We gotta get it out,” he says instead, looking for something he can use, “if we leave it in you might get infected, or…something else bad will happen.”

He pulls a pair of pliers from his pack and the dragon snorts.

“Easy, easy—“ the dragon’s eyes go wide at the glint of the flame off the metal— “hey, it’s okay, I’m gonna use these to get that metal outta you, yeah?”

It seems an hour before the dragon calms, gingerly stretching out its leg so Virgil can see the shard. Taking a deep breath, he hooks the pliers around the edge of the metal.

“Ready on three, okay?” He grits his teeth. “One…two…three!”

He yanks.

The dragon roars as the metal shard comes out in his hands, the side release almost sending him toppling back into the fire. Quickly, he discards the tools and reaches out to soothe the dragon, petting its scales and hushing it gently.

“Shh, shh, it’s out now, it’s okay, it can’t hurt you anymore.” He runs a hand over the dragon’s heaving back. “I’m gonna help you, okay? I’m here to help.”

It seems to calm the dragon, its breathing slowly but surely calming down as Virgil continues to speak softly to it. Honestly, if it were this easy to calm _himself_ down, he would have a lot fewer problems.

“I’ve got to clean it,” he says after a minute, “just to make sure you don’t get infected. Then I’ll be done, okay?”

The dragon swivels its massive head around, looking at the wound, then back at Virgil. It heaves a great sigh and its chin comes to rest on the floor, staring at him. Guess that’s as close to permission as he’s gonna get.

“Thank you. This, uh, this may sting a bit.”

He barely gets a flinch as he starts cleaning the cut. Dragons. Once he’s wrapped the dragon’s leg as best he can, he turns to peer at the shard of metal he pulled out of the wound. He holds it up, examining it in the firelight.

It looks…wrong.

It’s too thick to be just something that _happened_ to get in there, but too jagged to be something natural. It looks like it snapped off of something, but it’s not the right shape to be an arrowhead or a piece of a building. So what…?

He turns when the dragon starts to move.

It heaves itself to its feet, testing out its weight on all four legs. When the pain doesn’t shoot through, it lumbers off, further into the cave. Its head dips down, out of sight for a moment, before it turns and starts back toward the fire, dragging something in its mouth.

Virgil’s eyes widen when another bag is dropped in front of him.

“Is this…is this someone else’s?” He lays his fingers carefully on its surface. “Did…did you…did someone else come here before me?”

The dragon huffs.

With trembling fingers, he flips open the bag. There’s a good store of meat in here, a change of clothes, something for armor, it’s a provisions bag. One side has a little loop attached with nothing inside.

“…someone tried to stab you,” he realizes in horror, looking back up at the dragon. “Someone tried to fight you but couldn’t. So they stabbed you in the leg.”

His fists clench.

“They _hurt_ you.”

Another huff. Then the dragon nudges the bag toward him again.

“Is there something else in here?” Virgil starts sorting through the possessions. He lays the clothes to one side, the bottles to another. When he gets to the food, the dragon leans forward and snorts, blowing hot air into his face.

“This? This is what you want me to get?” He looks at it. It’s just more dried meat. It, uh, it actually looks a little better than his. “Are you hungry?”

The dragon snorts at Virgil’s pack, then at the food in his hands.

“…are you…giving this to me because I’m still hungry?”

Another huff, longer this time, and the dragon’s head comes to rest on the floor, eyes staring up at him.

Virgil swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Well, that’s—thank you.”

The dragon rumbles as he starts to eat, eyes blinking lazily. Virgil tries not to mind too much.

And…honestly? It’s not that bad. He’s had worse audiences when he’s just trying to eat. The dragon switches its tail every now and then, huffing gently to keep the fire going. It’s…nice.

Virgil finishes eating as much of the food as he wants and tucks the rest away. He takes a moment to just…look.

“The other person,” he says eventually, “the one that hurt you…they—I think they wanted to kill you.”

The dragon stares at him like he just said the sky is blue.

“No, really, I—I don’t think they wanted anything else.” He shakes his head. “We’re not near enough to any villages for that to be the reason, there aren’t any traveling paths through here, there’s…there’s no other reason. I think they just wanted to kill you.”

The cave falls quiet as the rain pours outside.

“…I think they wanted me to kill you too.”

Virgil’s chest aches. Something in his right hand tingles.

  
“Why do they always want me to kill you?”

And he’s not just talking about the dragon now.

It’s always the same.

Fight this. Kill that. Rescue us from this. Save us from that.

What if you’re not the ones that need to be saved?

Virgil lets his chin drop to his chest and sighs. His sword hangs heavy at his hip. His hands tremble in the burning light of the fire.

“I hate to impose,” he manages through a sluggish tongue, “but…may I stay? Just until the storm passes?”

A low _thud_ makes him look up. The dragon shifts, its tail curled in a half-circle around Virgil and the fire. It huffs softly.

“Thank you.”

* * *

Sometimes he has sleepless nights. Drifts in blackness and emptiness until it’s time to get up. Or he’ll close his eyes for what feels like an instant before he wakes up the next day.

Sometimes he has restless nights. Can’t sleep, can’t manage to get more than a few minutes of tense darkness before his eyes shoot open and he _has_ to reassure himself that’s he can sleep.

Sometimes he has good nights. Dreams of sunshine and warmth and the safety of a hot drink between his palms. Closing his eyes and just hearing the peaceful hum of his cabin.

Most of the time he has nightmares. The good ones are just mixes of monsters he can’t see coming, kills he wishes he didn’t have to make. Losing someone he should’ve been able to save.

This one’s a bad one.

_Jaws close down on his arm. The creature whips its head back and forth, shaking him like a rag doll. He grits his teeth and tries to—_

_His eyes widen as the burning roof collapses on top of him. A heavy beam falls onto his chest and he can’t move, he’s going to—_

_The cliff face collapses under him and he plummets, fingers scrabbling for a hold against the crumbling face. He can’t reach, he can’t reach—_

“….shut _up,_ you’re gonna wake him up!”

“If _you_ stop shouting, then he _won’t.”_

_“Shh,_ the both of you.”

“This is _certainly_ working, I think we should all keep talking like this.”

“Oh, don’t _you_ start!”

“Hey, hey, shh! He’s waking up!”

Virgil is waking up, as a matter of fact, and he also has no idea where he is or what’s going on. He does know there are at least five people in this room with him though. That’s either a good thing or a really, _really_ bad thing.

He can feel rocks under his head. Is he still in the cave, then? How other people…here? Where’s the dragon?

“Hey,” one of the voices says, “are you okay? You kinda, uh, well, you weren’t looking very good for a little bit there.”

“Back up, you morons, you’re gonna scare him!”

“We’re not scary, shut up.”

“ _You’re_ scary.”

“All of you be _quiet,_ ” the first voice says, before it softens again. “Hey, can you open your eyes?”

_Well, I’ve definitely made worse decisions._

He wholeheartedly concurs with that thought when the first thing he sees is genuinely one of the most attractive people he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting face to face.

“There you are,” the beautiful person says, “good morning. Is your head alright?”

“Uh—“ _not now gay panic—_ “uh?”

“Back up, Logan,” another person says, “let me see.”

Logan— _great_ name, sure, why not—moves out of the way, and _oh god there’s two of them._

“Hi!” The other attractive person leans over Virgil and _gods—_ “are you hurt? You looked a little upset while you were sleeping.”

“You—“ Virgil does _not_ squeak— “you _watched_ me while I was sleeping?”

“Well, you fell asleep and Roman got worried, so—“

“I’m sorry,” Virgil interrupts, “who—who _are_ you?”

The person in front of him tilts his head. “Don’t you recognize us?”

_I would absolutely fucking remember meeting you, and I do not._

“Patton,” Logan says, “he’s a mortal. He won’t—we are not as we were when he met us.”

The butterflies in Virgil’s stomach ice.

These…these are _creatures._ Is he—what supernatural force did he piss off?

Logan smiles at him and winks. First off, _rude,_ but—

Virgil squints. One of the man’s eyes is a deep bluish-grey. The other one—the one he just winked with—is a dappled brown.

Oh.

“…you’re the sprite.”

“I am,” he says, “my name is Logan.”

Something nudges his shoulder. Virgil looks over to see Patton offering him a round stone.

“…the mastiff elemental?”

“Patton, actually.” Patton smiles and gestures over Virgil’s other shoulder.

_Why are there five of them and why are they all so pretty?_

“Can you guess who they are?”

One of them rolls his eyes. “ _Yes,_ that sounds like a perfect use of time that _isn’t_ at all a waste.”

“Okay, so _you’re_ the jaculi.”

He smirks. “Janus.”

The one near the entrance to the cave just cackles and bounces on the balls of his feet. Almost like…

“You made me spill the bathtub over my whole yard!”

He cackles louder. “Yes, I did!”

Virgil rolls his eyes. He’s _not_ fond. He’s _not._

“Remus,” Logan scolds, “you said you were just going into the well.”

“ _He_ took me out!”

“Yeah, because that thing is cramped as hell.”

“Aww,” Patton coos, “how sweet.”

“Well,” the last one says, smiling softly from one of the darker corners of the cave, “we knew that, didn’t we?”

Virgil turns, looking hard into the darkness. The last person stands, walking over slowly, leaning most of his weight on one leg. As he moves into the light, he sits down on the log and reaches down. Virgil’s eyes widen as he gets handed the last of the dried meat.

“You’re still hungry,” the person says softly, “I can tell.”

Virgil cannot eat right now, thank you very much. Instead, his eyes are fixed on his bandage, still tied sloppily around the person’s leg.

“You’re the dragon.”

“I am. But you can call me Roman.”

“…does it still hurt?”

“Oh, this?” He smiles and moves his leg. “A little. But it’s almost better,” he finishes, reaching over to gently bump Virgil’s shoulder, “thanks to you.”

Yes, hello? Virgil would like for someone to explain what’s going on, please.

“I’m sure you’ve got questions,” Logan says, also sitting down, “and we can do our best to answer them. But first…are you alright?”

Uh, no. “Why do you think I’m not?”

“You’re breathing faster than most mortals do at rest, your face is more flushed than it was, and you were troubled while you slept.”

…shhh…

“I, um…I was having a nightmare.”

“Ooh,” Remus says, plopping down on the floor with his chin propped up on his hands, “was it a bad one?”

“…you could say that.”

“Remus,” Patton chides, “don’t.”

Remus pouts but hushes, reaching out to toy with a stick. Patton rolls the stone between his hands.

“You did seem upset,” Janus says, “can we help?”

“H-help?”

Janus raises an eyebrow. “Yes, help. Or is that not a thing most mortals do?”

Um. Well. Uh, hang on.

“Are you just going to be mean to him,” Logan sighs, “or are we actually going to make an _effort_ to be friendly with the person we have decided to befriend?”

“Can one of you explain what’s going on?” Patton nods to Virgil. “Before he decides we’re all mad?”

Roman sighs. “Virgil? Are you still hungry?”

“Huh? No, no, I’m…I’m okay.”

He smiles. “Good. This…this might sound a bit strange, but…try and keep up?”

“As weird as it might sound, this isn’t the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Roman blinks in surprise, a small smile coming over his face. “Isn’t it?”

“Well, you must have some idea of what I do for a living.”

Roman’s smile only grows. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we do.”

Logan clears his throat. Virgil turns, seeing the book from his cabin appear in Logan’s hands.

“Did you—is that my—“

“I can assure you,” Logan says softly, “that I did not steal your book from you. Rather, this is a copy, generated from the information I was able to learn.”

“What did you want?”

“We were cursed.” Logan closes the book with a _snap._ “Cursed to take on forms that were hated or feared or simply a nuisance.”

Virgil’s stomach drops. Cursed?

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “that sounds…awful.”

“It was,” Janus mutters, “completely inconvenient and an utter waste of time.”

“You say like it wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh, right, it was _absolutely_ only _my_ fault.”

“You two,” Patton huffs, “enough.”

Virgil’s still trying to wrap his head around everything. “Wait, hang on, so—you were cursed? Were? Past tense?”

“Well,” Janus gestures to himself, “I don’t exactly look like a snake anymore, do I?”

He raises a finger when Virgil opens his mouth.

“Careful, dear.”

Virgil snaps his mouth shut.

Roman rolls his eyes and places a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “You broke the curse, my friend. Or at least…you helped us break it.”

“But how? I didn’t—I didn’t do anything.”

He raises an eyebrow and gestures to the bandage. “You don’t consider this doing anything?”

“Or this?” Patton holds up the stone.

Logan taps the cover of the book. “You helped us. When you had no reason to, past the goodness of your heart.”

“We would’ve been hurt,” Janus says quietly, “or hunted without you. They _certainly_ would’ve killed me.”

“And me,” Remus says.

Patton nods. “And me.”

Roman simply taps his leg. Right. They already tried to kill him.

Virgil blinks. “So…me helping broke the curse?”

“You _caring_ broke the curse,” Logan corrects gently, “and, well, when you...when _you_ seemed to be in need, we wanted to care for you too.”

Oh.

_Oh._

_Oh, fuck._

“So,” Roman says, smiling up at Virgil, “how can we help?”

“Help? With—with what?”

“The nightmares.”

“Oh,” Virgil mumbles, averting his eyes, “you, uh, can’t. Not really. They’re not a curse or magical or anything. They’re just nightmares.”

“But there must be something we can do.”

He shakes his head sadly. Believe him, if there were anything five _unfairly attractive people_ could do, he’d tell them. But there isn’t. “They come with the job. There’s not—no one can do anything.”

He can practically _hear_ Patton frowning. “That’s not very fair. You do so much for others, don’t they—don’t they care?”

Virgil shrugs. “Life isn’t fair.”

“So take what it won’t give you.” Janus folds his arms. “They don’t care for you. Even though you care for them.”

“They do care for me,” Virgil argues, “they’re kind. They help me.”

“Not with this,” he shoots back, “not with what you really need.”

“You protect everyone,” Roman says softly when Virgil opens his mouth to argue again, “who protects you?”

Who protects the protector?

“…no one.” Virgil shakes his head. “No one but me.”

“Well, you’re right. That doesn’t seem fair at all.” Logan sets the book aside and it vanishes into the darkness of the cave. “Perhaps we should endeavor to fix that.”

“F-fix it?” Virgil’s head jerks up. “How?”

“Let us protect you.”

“Protect _me?_ ”

“Do keep up,” Janus sighs, but he’s pretty sure he can see him smiling over there, “at the very least, we have magic. That should offer you something.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Roman says quickly, “but…thought we’d offer. Think it over.”

…well, if ‘protection’ involves seeing them more often, Virgil can definitely work with that.

“While I think it over, will you tell me how you got cursed?”

“So it was entirely Janus’s fault—“

“It was not!”

“Yes, it was!”

As Remus and Janus start arguing, Virgil smiles and leans back against the wall of the cave. Roman waves his hand and the cave wall warms, almost cradling Virgil. Logan settles on his other side, weight solid against his arm.

Yeah, he could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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